Lovers of the frenetically-paced madcap comedy films of the 1930s will undoubtedly be curious about the source of one of the most treasured among them the 1937 The Awful Truth starring Irene Dunn and Cary Grant. At the top of their form under the masterful direction of Leo McCarey, they cavorted through the inanities with such abandon that we paid almost no attention to the motivations of their illogically conscripted characters. The source is the 1922 play by Arthur Richman which the adventurous Metropolitan Playhouse has found and unfortunately fumbled with this otherwise well-intentioned revival, presumably the only one since it first appeared on Broadway.

It would be nice to say that their efforts to reunite theater-goers with a gem from the past are rewarding, but it simply isn't the case. And the problem exists as much with this talky, virtually hapless play as it is with the stilted, mostly overly mannered performances and the clumsy direction that have brought it back to life. About the only thing that is truly worth commending is the clever way in which the set (bravo to Alex Roe) is changed between the three acts of this less than two-hour play.

The action, or rather the mostly inane chatter, takes place in a study and in the two living rooms of its upper-crusty inhabitants.
All spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out the reasons why one couple's four-year marriage disintegrated and why the presumably cheating wife of that former union should now be worthy of the extremely wealthy oil tycoon to whom she is now engaged...to the chagrin of his mother.

Considering that the play is set in the 1920s, and the period-correct costumes provide what style there is to the proceedings, I was a bit dismayed by the unmistakable and distracting presence of contemporary bras beneath the ladies dresses. These destroyed the illusion of the flapper era's flattened haute couture, as much as the pretentious posturing destroyed any illusion of real behavior.

If there are two performers who show indications that, under firmer direction, might have delivered some of the desperately needed panache and brio to bring the stultifying doings to life they are Nate Washburn and Alexandra O'Daly as the divorced couple.

A few vintage plays such as last season's Icebound have been admirably produced by this company so one has to applaud the Metropolitan Playhouse for its mission to find and produce lost plays even if some of them show proof of why they have remained so.